Bloodmage
by valjo
Summary: About Neria Surana. Will have lots of magic. First fic, be nice!
1. Chapter 1

She hadn't even time to gather her things; a novice girl had been sent to fetch whatever was in her chest while mounts were readied. Irving enveloped her in a tight embrace but she pulled back, looking desperately into his eyes for some affirmation _that this was a nightmare._ He spoke soberly of duty, pressed a text into her hands and left her standing next to the Warden as if she had been a stranger passing through and not the elven girl he had protected and mentored for 15 years. She stared, expression vacant, at the Tower entrance Irving had disappeared through, in a state of utter shock. The templars on guard duty stared unashamedly at her; one tapped his sword hilt in meaningful manner as if he could read her thoughts. Surana instinctively recoiled and turned her back on their mocking laughter, as she had done so many times. She hurriedly climbed into her mount's leather saddle and cantered after the Warden.

Their path was a quiet one, broken only by occasional birdsong and the quiet snorting from a horse. Had the weather been a reflection of Surana's thoughts, they would have been riding through a tumultuous storm. Adrenaline still lingered in her veins and sharpened memories into perfect clarity as she relived everything since her awakening. Though her eyes saw a cloudless sky, she was fumbling through inky darkness that pervaded the bowels of the Tower. She breathed air clear and warm, but it was thick with century's worth of dust that tickled her throat and watered her eyes. Lilting birdsong was drowned by terrified screams; the three of them, when preternatural sentinels materialized from the gloom, laying about with grasping claws that parted flesh and muscle effortlessly. Sweaty hands held her staff in a white-knuckled grip as she cast spell after spell, and she tightened the hold on her mare's reins in stale mimicry. Her pulse elevated remembering their pell-mell race through the Tower's underbelly fueled by desperate energy and their will to survive. Swept up in a tide of biological reaction, real and remembered, Neria had forgotten what waited for her.

If she had died in the Harrowing, she knew Irving would have been her only mourner. But now he was gone and she was alone. If she died this very moment, no one would miss her. Perhaps if word reached Irving, silver tears might trickle down his weathered cheeks. Maybe if the parents she never knew one day searched for their long lost daughter, they would plant flowers at her grave, assuming she had one.

Loss crushed her heart; for the one person who had ever loved her, for the two who might have. Tears slipped unbidden from downcast eyes. Surana attacked them hastily, willed her throat to loosen, and began to tremble and gasp with unspent emotion. Irving had taught her to hide what she felt, lest it be used against her, but thinking of his words only made the ache worsen. Warm rivulets ran down her cheeks, and she pulled her deep hood forward. The Grey Warden did not look back. Even if he had, he would only have seen a small figure in well worn robes, face hidden in shadow.

The sky was dark when Surana began to doze in her saddle; she had not slept since the Harrowing and her eyelids began to feel heavy as lead.

She sat on the floor of a wooden house, playing contentedly with a toy horse on a string. Except that it wasn't a toy horse, it was a griffon. Across from her, a woman sat at table, scrawling on parchment in the dim light. The woman was her; only that wasn't right. The face changed; the hair lightened to blonde, nose sharpened, lips thinned. This woman looked like her but she shone with bright light. Or was it her eyes that held the light? Neria stared, dazed, but happy.

"You are growing so big, Ria. Soon your toys will be too small for you," the woman teased, lines forming at her eyes as she smiled. A small bead fell to her linen skirt. As Neria's eyes followed it, straining, more drops joined the first. Eyes round, she looked back up at the woman. The woman tried to say something but blood instead poured from her lips in dark rivulets. Terrified, Neria reached out to help her and found herself paralyzed under a crushing weight. In a blind panic, she desperately clawed at the heavy templar suit of armour that restrained her and felt nothing; looking down, she held a sword in red hands, slick with her mother's life blood.

She remembered none of it when she woke the next morning in her bedroll.

The Warden set a hard pace; they were up before dawn each day and rode until the light went out. He hardly spoke to Surana, for which she was grateful. She did not think about where they were headed, or why. Her grief, once sharp as a blade, began to subside into numbness. Each day she woke with her eyes tight shut, wishing that the Warden would leave without her. She wanted quiet, dreamless sleep, and his sword and armour rattled every time he moved. Still, he prodded her into the saddle every morning, and Surana couldn't muster the energy to resist.

It was well into the next week when Duncan signaled a halt at midday. "We are within an hour's ride of Ostagar, child," he informed her. "Take a moment to rest, perhaps change. You will find Ostagar not so peaceful as our journey, I'm afraid."

When her mare was properly hobbled, Surana tottered off into the brush for a pond Duncan said lay hidden in its depths. She glanced at her reflection played back on the water's surface. Her dark brown hair was a mass of tangles about her shoulders, and her face was blotchy with dirt and ash, except for pale tracks where her tears had fallen.

Suddenly the filth was more than she could bear. She flung off her robes and dashed headlong into the pond. It was a moment before the cold reached her senses, and then she shrieked, swimming farther in. Ducking beneath the surface, she watched as her hair danced above her face, swaying back and forth like seaweed. When she could no longer breathe, she propelled upwards, kicking forcefully. Her head broke the surface with an almighty splash and birds scattered from the trees, alarmed. She paddled gently and floated on her back, staring up at a darkened forest canopy. The cool water felt glorious after so many days of grime and it soothed her saddle-sore muscles. For a moment, she let herself imagine that instead of a lost elven girl, she was some beautiful, carefree nymph and this was her home.

When her fingers started to prune, she reluctantly left the water and dried off with handfuls of long grass. Reaching a hand into her bags, she pulled out clean robes. Her eyes widened in surprise; someone had packed her new mage vestments. She shimmied into spare undergarments and pulled the robes over her head. They were beautifully crafted of sheer, soft wool. High necked and full sleeved, the robes were tailored for comfort and had layers of underskirts for warmth. Gold embroidery covered a buttery yellow bodice that tapered into sage green skirts divided for riding.

Neria spun in a circle and her skirts swirled lightly. For the first time in many days, she felt the pressure in her chest relax. _I could be a lady in this_, she thought. _Or maybe even just a rich merchant_. Gathering her patched and faded novice robes, she pitched them into the pond and watched as they slowly sunk.

Delicious smells were coming from a small pot Duncan had cooking over flames. He looked up as she approached. "Ah, child, you are looking happier. It is good to see."

Neria ducked her head in greeting and went to her saddlebags in search of her hairbrush. She riffled through her belongings but did not find what she was looking for. Dumping all its contents on the ground, she got to her knees and searched furiously. It wasn't there though, had never been there, she realized as her heart sunk.

"Is everything all right, child?" Duncan asked.

"Yes," Surana answered quietly. "It's just, my hairbrush." She paused, staring at her empty hands. "It was from my mother, that's all. It's bone white with fine silver backing. I've had it since I can remember."

"Did it fall out? Perhaps after our business is finished, we can journey back this way."

"No, there is no need." _More likely the apprentice sent to collect my things stole it._ "It is only a hairbrush. _And I am only a girl with blood more common than water. I left my past behind but it does not leave me. _

Surana plucked her skirts halfheartedly and wished she hadn't thrown away her apprentice robes.


	2. Chapter 3

Silence hung thick in the air. The click of her crimson dragonscale heels on stone flooring sounded as shattering thunder in the suffocating stillness. Blinding midday light streamed through soaring windows, and Neria shielded her eyes with one hand. Her other found Spellweaver's hilt, its heavy weight a reassuring comfort in the ethereal quiet. Familiar warmth spread to her fingers, as any mage would feel when handling a blade alloyed with metals and lyrium. _A magnificent blade_, she thought proudly. _Elven-forged, like me_. Once her birth may have shamed her, but not any longer. It was passing strange that a sword swaying on her hip could make her feel whole, and determined and _more, _but Neria suspected the same held true for the woman she now faced.

Her eyes met those of Ser Cauthrien. Hard, dark eyes like chips of obsidian stared back into orbs colored like a forest canopy. Perhaps ten or fifteen winters older than Neria herself, the other woman's story had become legend whilst the elf had been but a mageling. Cauthrien had been just a simple farmer's daughter when she saved the Hero of Ferelden from a swarm of bandits. Loghain Mac Tir had taken the young woman into his service and gifted her with _Summersword_. That very greatsword, almost as legendary as its wielder, now peeked over Cauthrien's shoulder while very nearly touching the floor. Neria read it had been crafted by an Orlesian master swordsmith for some Orlesian prince whose name she had forgotten, but Loghain had taken it during the war. _Summersword_ bore no ornamentation or precious gems, much like its master, but Neria had never seen a more expertly crafted blade.

"Warden," Cauthrien called in a voice as sharp as her namesake_,_ "I am not surprised it has come to this. And Alistair, if you were even remotely worthy of being called Maric's son, you would already be in the Landsmeet, wouldn't you?" Her eyes narrowed as she addressed Alistair, but they focused on Neria again.

"You have torn this nation apart to oppose my lord, and never tried to understand why he is a hero to Ferelden." There was quiet, metallic whisking as Cauthrien's plate shifted when she stepped closer to the elf.

Her eyes flashed with anger as she said, "But do not think you will get past me to desecrate the Landsmeet itself. The nobles of Ferelden will confirm my lord as regent, and we can finally put this matter to rest. Once you are gone."

Neria had no wish to kill Cauthrien. The Summersword was simply doing her duty as a soldier, and was prepared to die for it. Was it a crime, truly, to do as you are sworn to? Even if doing so felt like a betrayal of your heart, mind, and everything you hold dear? Oaths could be restrictive that way, Neria knew. They left little room for life or honor. Just obedience.

She studied the swordswoman's face intently; Cauthrien did not drop her challenging glare or withdraw an inch.

"Do you really not see what Loghain has become?" Neria asked quietly. The other woman stared back silently for a time. The elf's ears swiveled slightly as shouts erupted from the other side of great iron-barred doors and became murmurs in the entryway. Then, all the heat and intensity faded from the swordswoman's eyes, like hot coals without a fire. And Neria knew she had won.

"Loghain is a great man, but his hatred of Orlais has driven him to madness. He has done terrible things, I know it, but I owe him everything. I cannot betray him, do not ask me to!"

Though Cauthrien's volume had risen with agitation, Neria said evenly, "Then let me stop him. You know it is the only way."

Cauthrien's hard mouth twisted into a contorted grimace. "I never thought duty would taste so bitter."

Neria's heart ached under what felt like a crushing weight. Her last moments as a mage of the Circle flashed vividly in her memory. She saw Jowan, her sole companion for years, pleading with her to save him from a fate worse than death. And Lily, whose love for Jowan overshadowed reason and heartfelt vows. In her fear and uncertainty, Neria had sought out her most trusted mentor, only to become a pawn in a struggle for power between the Circle and its Templars. _You are a mage of the Circle_, Irving had said, _you know where your duty lies_. Neria had wanted to scream, _but what of me? How can I betray friendship and love? Is there no room in this world for these things too?_ But she had quashed her misgivings, and done as bid. The end had brought betrayal, rage and blood, _Maker! So much blood that it had pooled on the floor and misted the air. Like some hideous rain. And that did not compare to the smell; of open wounds, loosened bowels and fear. _ Irving had said, _you did the right thing, child_. But had she? She had stood there, unseeing and unfeeling while her mind spun, until her tongue idly touched her lips and tasted _something_ metallic. She had retched long after her belly had given up its contents. Neria did not protest her conscription and dully allowed Duncan to take her to cold and pitiless Ostagar, where the face of duty changed. _You are no longer a mage of the Circle_, they said. _You are now a Grey Warden, _they said - _In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice_. _You must serve everyone and no one_. _Think not of yourself as a mage of the Circle_, they said. What had it all been for, then, if she was no mage of the Circle? What of the carnage; what of her betrayal? _I have known duty_, Neria thought, _and hated it nearly as much as I hate myself._

Her reverie shattered when Cauthrien said, "Stop him Warden. Stop him from betraying everything he once loved."

The swordswoman moved to the side and fell to one knee. "Please," she continued in voice laced with pain, "show mercy. Without Loghain, there would be no Ferelden to defend."

Neria strode forward quickly, leaving behind the Summersword and memories that still shadowed her heart. Stifled whispers became shouts as she wrenched open the doors.


	3. Chapter 2

What was distinctly Aryl Eamon's voice filled the Palace hall, "My lords and ladies of the Landsmeet, Teyrn Loghain would have us give up our freedoms, our traditions, out of fear."

Dozens of Ferelden's lords and ladies were arrayed before an empty throne, listening to the Aryl orate from a high balcony. Neria was silently searching for Loghain among their sea of silk, velvet and lace when a dramatic gasp was heard. As the crowd shifted to find the source of the noise, Neria felt countless sets of eyes focus on face. Warmth was growing in her cheeks and ears, and she nervously patted her messy bun. The nobility continued to stare back unabashedly, shrewd eyes categorizing every detail about the diminutive mage. It made her feel naked and vulnerable and suddenly the contrast between their finery and her scruffiness was more than she could bear.

"He placed us on this path," Eamon continued, "yet we should place our destiny in his hands? Must we sacrifice everything good about our nation to save it?" Neria's mind was elsewhere.

The night after Lothering, she hadn't noticed the gigantic -or so it had seemed- mark across her forehead until they were setting up camp. Hastily she had attacked it with soap from her pack and went about her business, until Leliana had asked where her friend had gone. Confused, Neria asked her, what friend? And Leliana had said, why, your smudge of course! It was on your face so long I thought it had decided to join you on your quest. Neria had spent the night hiding in her tent from shame and humiliation and _that's why Alistair was giving me funny looks_! But she had gotten used to the sweat and dirt faster than she would have thought possible; the journey, though, had been more difficult than she could have ever imagined. Days were achingly long, nights fleeting and scrapes with death frequent; she hardly had time to breathe let alone fuss over appearances. Besides, Alistair thought her beautiful and he could have had any woman he wanted.

As though he read her mind, Alistair's strong hand found the small of her back and self-assurance returned to the mage like a breaker to shore. Neria defiantly met the eyes of her watchers with more than a little irritation searing her insides; after all she had been through, how was it that childhood insecurities still clung to her like burrs?

"A fine performance Eamon, but no one here is taken in by it." Loghain's words jerked Neria out of her thoughts and drew the eyes of all.

"You would attempt to put a puppet on the throne and every soul here knows it. The better question is, 'Who will pull the strings?'" The Hero of Riverdane grated forcefully.

Almost imperceptibly the space around Neria and her party grew. Self-proclaimed he may be, but Loghain was still Regent and his daughter Queen, and nobility were drawn to power like moths to flame. Neria moved to confront him with haste.

"Ah, and here we have the puppeteer," Loghain roared accusingly as she moved under his glare. "Tell us Warden. How will the Orlesians take our nation from us? Will they deign to send their troops, or simply issue their commands through this would-be prince?" His mouth narrowed with distaste as he gestured at Alistair. "How much Ferelden blood does Orlesian gold buy these days?"

Low murmurs ensued as Ferelden's nobility buzzed with reaction. Though she might win the Banns and Aryls to the Warden banner, her nation's nobles were a different matter altogether. Some of its older houses had roots dating back hundreds of years and vast wealth. Their support could turn the tide of the Landsmeet, or worse, cause a bloody division. Neria's companions would be arrested for treason and Alistair, an upstart rebel … her grasp tightened reflexively on Spellweaver.

When order restored, she spoke loudly to keep the quaver from her voice. "The Blight is the real threat here, not Orlais!"

"There are enough refugees in my bannorn now to make that abundantly clear." Bann Alfstanna called from the high balcony. On her left, Arl Wulff agreed. "The south is fallen, Loghain! Will you let the darkspawn take the whole country for fear of Orlais?"

"The Blight is indeed real, Wullf." Loghain agreed, pacing to either side of Ferelden's throne as he spoke. Firelight from a looming hearth danced across Loghain's silvered plate. "But do we need Grey Wardens to fight it? They claim that they alone can end the Blight, yet they failed spectacularly against the darkspawn at Ostagar, and they ask to bring with them four legions of chevaliers. And when we open our borders to the chevaliers, can we really expect them to simply return from whence they came?"

This time, the hum of discussion was louder and Neria's pointed ears picked out clear agreement. She could have laughed at the absurdity if her lungs were not constricted by panic tighter than iron bands. _The rich and powerful know nothing of darkspawn and care even less. None have watched an Ogre crush an armored man like a piece of overripe fruit. None have seen a human face bruised and rotted by blood taint. They have not smelled the swollen flesh of a Broodmother, or blistered from her poison. They do not fear as I fear. _And suddenly, a moment of clarity shone brighter than a shaft of sunlight and Neria clung to it like a drowning woman to driftwood.

"You allowed Renden Howe to imprison and torture innocents." Her voice sounded high and childish; dead silence followed her words, and Neria thought for a fleeting moment that laughter would ring.

"The Warden speaks truly!" Bann Sighard raged. "My son was taken, under cover of night. The things done to him … some of them are beyond any healer's skill." The nobility cried out with anger and disbelief; Bann Sighard trembled with emotion.

Neria felt a flash of shame for misusing Sighard's sorrow before Loghain replied, "Howe was responsible for himself. He will answer to the Maker for any wrongs committed in this life. As must we all. But you know that. You were the one who murdered him. Whatever Howe may have done, he should have been brought before the seneschal. There is no justice in butchering a man in his own home."

"No? Then why did you send a blood mage to poison Arl Eamon?" Angry cries cut off Neria's words; she knew she would gather no support with her tragic tales of elven slavery and darkspawn incursion, but Loghain's actions threatened even the most influential of Ferelden's houses. Her belly roiled with hate; she hated these cold, unfeeling nobles and she hated scrambling for their approval.

"I assure you Warden, if I were going to send someone, it would be my own soldiers. I would not trust to the discretion of an apostate," Loghain countered quickly.

"Indeed? My brother tells a very different tale," challenged Alfstanna. "He says you protected a blood mage from the Chantry's justice. Coincidence?"

"Do not think the Chantry will overlook this, Teryn Loghain. Interference in a templar's sacred duties is an offense against the Maker," rasped Denerim's elderly Revered Mother. Her thin mouth almost disappeared entirely as she pursued her in disapproval.

"Whatever I have done, I will answer for later," Loghain replied, oddly quiet. Then, louder, "At the moment, however, I wish to know what this warden has done with my daughter."

"We are discussing your crimes here." Neria had him by – as Oghren would say –the short and curlies, and she would not let victory slip through her fingers. She saw Alistair nod approval at her words knew she would burn the world if it meant his life.

"You took my daughter – our Queen- by force, killing her guards in the process. What arts have you employed to keep her? Does she even still live?" Loghain accused.

"I believe I can speak for myself," Anora called in a confident, melodious voice as she entered the hall through a hidden side door. Here at last, looking utterly composed and lovely. Trusting Anora had been a gamble – Neria's gamble- and the sight of her so eerily calm was unnerving. Eamon did not trust in the Queen's loyalty – or ability – but the mage had been moved by Anora's love for her father. And now here she stood, eyes favoring the dark blue of her gown, golden royal circlet gleaming in honey coloured hair.

Next to the vacant throne, Anora continued, "Lords and Ladies of Ferelden hear me. My father is no longer the man you know. This man in not the Hero of Riverdane. This man turned his troops aside and refused to protect your king as he fought bravely against the darkspawn. This man seized Cailan's throne before his body was cold and locked me away before I could reveal his treachery. I would have been killed if not for this Grey Warden."

Neria let out a breath she hadn't realized was lodged in her throat. Gently, Loghain replied to his daughter. "So the Warden's influence has poisoned even your mind, Anora? I wanted to protect you from this." Facing his vassals again, Loghain spoke with strength and fervor, as though his own daughter had not named him murderer moments ago. "My lords and ladies, our land has been threatened before. It's been invaded, and lost, and won beyond counting. We Fereldens have proven that we will never truly be conquered as long as we are united. We must not let ourselves be divided now. Stand with me, and we shall defeat even the Blight itself."

The last of Loghain's words faded into complete silence, for a handful of seconds. Then,

"The Warden, I'm with the Warden!"

"South Reach stands with the Grey Wardens."

"Waking Sea stands with the Grey Warden!"

"Dragon's Peak supports the Warden!"

"The Western Hills throw their lot in with the Wardens. Maker help us."

"I stand by Loghain! We've no hope of victory otherwise."

"I stand with the Warden! The Blight is coming, we need the Grey Wardens!"

Decidedly ignoble cheers and clapping broke out as those present applauded the decision of the Landsmeet. Neria let her lips curve into a smile; Alistair was safe. And there need be no bloody struggle over a divided Ferelden. She felt her body sag in relief.

And almost leapt free of her skin when Loghain unexpectedly bellowed, "Traitors! Which of you stood against the Orlesian emperor when his troops flattened your fields and raped your wives?" Raw hatred leant a terrible strength to his words. "You fought with us once, Eamon. You cared about this land once. Before you got too old and fat and content to even see what you risk. None of you deserve a say in what happens here! None of you have spilled blood for you for this land the way I have! How dare you judge me?"

_Anora was wrong, _Neria thought, _this is the Hero of Riverdane. He is as determined now as the stories say he was as a youth, but his heart is twisted by hatred and fear. He cannot see the Blight when Orlais still haunts his dreams._ "Call off your men and we'll settle this honorably."

Dark eyes captured her own in a steely gaze. "Then let us end this," all evidence of rage evaporated. "I suppose we both knew it would come to this. When we first met at Ostagar, I would never have thought so. But Ostagar seems like it happened in another lifetime, to someone else." He paused and Neria knew it for truth. "A man is made by the quality of his enemies. Maric told me that once. I wonder if it's more of a compliment to you or me. Enough. Let the Landsmeet declare the terms of the duel."


End file.
